


All Are Blind Whose Eyes Are Closed

by ReaperRain



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Blindness, Disability, F/M, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperRain/pseuds/ReaperRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Original DA K!Meme prompt: M!Hawke is a skilled fighter deeply in a relationship with one of the characters/companions that isn't Fenris. Out on a mission, however, Hawke is gravely hurt its to the point of a debilitating injury. Instead of love/support from his lover as anyone might expect, Hawke is left because of the new handicap.</p><p>It is Fenris, who has always loved Hawke but the other relationship started first/didn't want to break it up/whatever, who becomes Hawke's constant companion and supporter, quietly helping him overcome the handicap. And Hawke, who always thought of Fenris as a friend before, comes to see what true love is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Are Blind Whose Eyes Are Closed

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not yet finished, but looks set to be novel-length, so I'll be posting it here alongside the meme fill. Note the story starts with a straight pairing but will eventually have slash. Just a forewarning to anyone who isn't into male/male stuff.

One moment it is the flurry, the chaos, the raw instinct of battle. And then – his world turns red, and all he knows is pain.

He stumbles back, dropping his daggers immediately, and there is a horrific screaming noise that, he only dimly realises, is coming from him. A panicked tangle of shouts answer him. The spider hisses, so close, and knocks him to the floor, only to shriek in sudden death throes. Over the lasting ringing noise ricocheting around his head, he can just make out weapons being discarded, hurried footsteps.

“Hawke – Sìleas, let me see,” Varric's voice struggles to remain calm and level. Hawke shakes his head frantically, hands jammed up against his eyes. He can distinctly feel fluid trickling between his fingers, and beneath his palms is searing heat, eating through the material of his gloves. Someone forcefully pulls his wrists away. There's no way to decide which is more distressing: the agony, the noise that tears itself from his throat, or the sudden smell of burning, rotting flesh.

“Shit, shit, shit...” Varric moves away, clumsily rustling his way through the backpack for medical aid. Sìleas can only sit there shaking, trying not to scream, taking air in through his mouth because his nose won't work properly. Someone else breathes as erratically as he does, as though on the verge of tears.

“Why are you just standing there?” someone snaps – Fenris, angrier than he's ever heard him before, “You have magic, heal him!”

“I – I can't,”

“What do you mean, you can't?!”

“I can't heal! I don't know how!” she sounds so distressed that he instinctively reaches for her. A muffled sob as she clings onto his hand.

“Shit, shit – this is all we've got, stay still...” the application of healing salve to his skin would usually be cool and soothing, but it only makes it hurt more. He almost breaks the delicate elven fingers in his grip with how hard he clenches, suppressing a wail into a choked, broken noise. “Mer- Daisy, help Broody carry him, we need to get him to Darktown _now._ ”

He staggers, supported by two elves, out of the Bone Pit and back to Kirkwall. Merrill reels off reassurances like she's trying to convince herself, while Fenris is grimly silent, the hard spikes of his armour digging into Hawke's side. It's a monumental effort not to simply pass out, and literally the second he makes it to Anders' clinic his knees buckle and give way.

“What- Hawke?!” he lifts his head as Anders runs over, and hears the sharp intake of breath. “What in the Maker's name happened?!”

“Acid-” Varric starts.

And is interrupted by Fenris: “There's no time for that. _Heal him._ ” He lifts Hawke again with surprising strength, half-carrying him over to the nearest medical cot. For once Anders doesn't snap back, and Sìleas numbly wonders how severe his condition must be, to silence such squabbles.

The first touch of healing magic renews the pain. He can feel the cartilage of his nose mending, re-growing, and he realises that's because _there isn't one there._ The panic, the fear, the sensation is too much – his body does the most merciful thing, and renders him unconscious. But the sound of his screaming follows him into his dreams, and does not stop.

He's unsure when he wakes up, because there is no light. He is conscious and silent now, but he could merely be a lucid dream for all he knows. He tries to open his eyes but cannot, It's not that they refuse to open, there is simply no sensation of eyelids or eyelashes or eyeballs swivelling about, straining to see. It might be more alarming if his thoughts weren't such a jumbled mess of _Where am I_ and _What's going on_ and _Is Merrill okay?_ His arms jerk into action, lifting to touch his face, but from nowhere another hand on his startles him into stopping.

“Hawke,” Anders' voice is hushed but unmistakably nearby, “Are you awake?”

“I assume so, if I'm talking to you,” and yet he still can't see anything. He shifts into a sitting position, frowning, or at least trying to. His brow furrows, and yet he cannot feel his eyes narrow. “Where am I?”

“In the clinic. It's alright, you're safe,” Anders speaks soothingly, helping him up. Which is odd – he and Anders don't get on so well, the healer is usually sterner with him.

“Well why is it so dark in here? Light a candle.”

There is a hesitant silence. “Hawke, do you remember how you got here?”

“Not clearly. There was a fight... I think I was injured? I suppose I must've been,” for some reason the exact details are fuzzy. Strange, he'd hardy class himself as absent-minded, but it almost feels like he doesn't _want_ to remember. “You didn't answer my question.”

“You were clearing out spiders in the Bone Pit,” Anders reminds him, sounding tentative. Still not answering his question. “From what Varric told me, the last one threw some acid at you, and you... didn't dodge it in time. That old wound from the Arishok must have slowed you down, the stitches were re-opened.”

Now that he mentions it, he can feel the ache in his side, the impalement souvenir from duelling the Qunari leader. But the rest of him feels fine, other than the distinct _lack_ of sensation around his eyes. “Yes, but why can't I see anything?”

His next words sound positively pained: “Because the acid hit your eyes. By the time you got back to Kirkwall... I did everything I could, but there's only so much even magic can do.”

“What are you saying?” Slowly, reluctantly the recollection starts to trickle in. _One moment it is the flurry, the chaos, the raw instinct of battle..._ He shrugs off the mage's hands, and as soon as his fingertips scrape against his face it all comes back.

He remembers not having a nose. And yet his nose is there, albeit a little tender and – _new,_ he realises with a jolt. His fingers swiftly move upwards and find no eyelids, eyelashes or eyeballs. Just planes of skin, rough and warped. “Where... where are my eyes?”

“You – you don't have any. I had to seal them shut.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“I didn't have a choice, I had to prevent infection. I managed to fix your nose-”

“Then why didn't you just fix my eyes?!”

“There was nothing left to fix! The acid completely erased them, there was just what remained of the sockets. Believe me I tried, but – I just – I couldn't.”

“There has to be something you can do. Even if it's not instant, you could heal them slowly over time or – or-”

“If I could, I would. This is... it's permanent.” A silence falls between them. Anders waits for Sìleas to speak, but he is silent. “Hawke?”

“This isn't real,” he says at last, shaking his head, “I'm still dreaming, I have to be.”

“It's not a dream,” the supposed Anders answers sadly.

“You _would_ say that if you were a demon. I'm going to wake up whether you want me to or not.”

A weary sigh, as though Anders expected this to happen. All the more proof that this is a lie conjured by the Fade, or perhaps a blood mage-induced coma. He expects the acknowledgement to throw the illusion off, help him wake up, but nothing happens.

“Merrill! Can you come in here?”

Distantly he can make out arguing, but muffled as though on the other side of a wall, which silences at Anders' call. Correctly, he hears a door scrape open, footsteps, more than one set. As though there are others cautiously filing into the room. And then, the perfect mimicry of Merrill's voice, tense and fearful; “I – I'm here.”

“He thinks he's still asleep and none of this is real. I thought you could persuade him.”

“It's not a dream, _emma lath,_ ” the words are so quiet, as though she's afraid to speak, to tell him. “Only mages can walk lucid in the Fade. You're awake.”

“I don't believe you,” he snaps, masking his uncertainty with anger. He can hear her gasp, picture her flinch, and he almost feels bad; their relationship is filled with disagreements and dispute, but he's never once raised his voice to her. But he must remember that this is not Merrill, just something wearing her voice. “You could just be putting on different voices, spirit. Perhaps if I could _see_ you, I would be more easily persuaded.” He hopes to trick the demon into giving him his sight back. It doesn't work.

“I wish I could say that was the case,” Varric's voice, from further away. It lacks its usual casual wit and humour, he simply sounds tired, and sad. “Shit, Blondie, I'm not even sure if I _want_ to convince him this is real.”

Clever, a lesser demon would've made Varric sound his usual self, inappropriately happy. But regardless, Sìleas won't fall for the trick.

“Just... give him time,” is the grim reply. “There's no sense keeping him here, I've healed what I can. Take him through the passage to the Amell cellars, best if no-one sees him in this state.”

Delicate hands try to help him off the cot. He bats them away and they skitter nervously, but a stronger, firmer set – the kind used to holding squirming patients still – moves him before he can protest. He stands, sways. The world is a great black chasm, and he can only be sure that the ground beneath his feet exists. One step forwards, backwards, sideways, and he may well drop into an endless pit that never stops, or at least trip and land flat on his face.

“This way, Hawke,” her timid, whispered voice. She may be a demon, but he is so afraid to fall that he lets her hook her arm around his, guiding him. Each step is halting and unsure, venturing down a path of unknowns.

He's led so many steps forwards, someone holding the door open for him, then steered to the right; if he pictures it in his head, it's where the path to the estate cellars are. He squirms, emitting a startled yelp as a hand fishes through his pockets for the key to unlock the entrance. The fear turns to bristling anger at the humiliation, shoulders tensed and teeth clenched, but panic soon returns as they lurch on. He tries to visualise where he is going, but it's difficult to remember the exact layout, and he only ends up even more disorientated. He stumbles on an unexpected set of stairs, to the tune of hasty apologies.

After a dizzying trip through the corridors and up stairways, the dust clogging his nose and throat clears, and he recognises the clean, well-aired atmosphere of his home. Distantly he can hear Bodahn chatting away to Sandal, who answers in the mostly-gibberish that Bodahn nevertheless seems to comprehend perfectly. Varric curses under his breath and runs ahead to talk with them, tell them what has happened. The other two lead him up the stairs and he allows it, if only because he has no other choice. What would normally take him but a few seconds to transverse now feels like climbing a mountain; his steps clumsily slow-paced as he struggles to find his footing and his teeth gnash in frustration by the time he finally reaches the top.

At least this is a familiar environment, and he can vaguely picture where he is going. His still misjudges the position of the bed in his room, walking too far and knocking his knees painfully against the frame. Merrill babbles apologies and Fenris... Fenris steers him correctly, without comment, so he may sit at the foot of the bed. He is silent not just in his words but his breathing and the way he barely touches Hawke's arm. The only reason Sìleas knows he's there at all is because he can still feel the sharp-edged armour.

“I told him to take Sandal out for an hour. A little less aggro until we get everything settled,” Varric says upon his return, “How are you holding up, Hawke?”

“Waiting to wake up,” he answers honestly.

This earns him another sad sigh. “You will. Just not to the reality you were expecting.”

“The others must be told,” Fenris' voice comes from his right, closer than he expected. It is his first words since the beginning of all this.

“We might want to wait until he... comes to terms with it.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“What? It might take weeks-”

“Tomorrow,” Fenris repeats firmly, and leaves it at that.

“We just have to figure out what to tell them,” Merrill voices from his left, laying a hand over his wrist. He can feel the metal of the armour he gifted her, though its planes are smooth and curved compared to the Tevinter spikiness on his other side. They both feel so familiar, the attention to their details is so great, that for a moment he could almost believe this is real after all.

He chases the thought away. He hates second-guessing himself, it is impractical and dangerous. A leader, a _Champion_ does not hesitate or falter, but strides ahead with the conviction that inspires others to follow. A Champion knows waking truth from nightmare, and that is all this is. A detailed, realistic nightmare, but he cannot stay asleep forever; he will wake up eventually, shaken but otherwise fine, with his eyes wholly intact. He is certain, he is confident, he is...

 _Tired,_ he realises suddenly. Despite only just leaving Anders' clinic, he didn't feel rested to begin with, and the journey back to his house was even more physically and mentally exhausting. He reaches a hand up to scrub his eyes wearily, only to snatch it back at the feel of marred skin.

“Maybe you should get some rest, _emma lath,_ ” Merrill suggests softly, “It's been a long day.”

He shouldn't listen to a demon or comply with any of its wishes... but then again, maybe slumber will trigger an end to the dream. And he wants little more than to sleep; he scoots back on the bed, limbs heavy, head even heavier as he lays it down. On the pillow compared to the hard mattress and scratchy blankets of the clinic cot, this feels blissfully soft.

When he wakes, everything will be back to normal, he is sure of it.

-

He wakes up, and finds-

-Blackness.

He bolts upright in the bed, startling the others in the room and halting their murmured conversation. He touches his face, willing himself to find everything intact, to realise that he just hasn't opened his eyes yet. But there is nothing, just that hideous sealed skin.

“Hawke?” someone asks.

He is in his room, where he remembers falling asleep. Too consistent for the Fade. It always changes, the endless shift logical only to those addled with sleep, and he is fully conscious. _Fully conscious,_ he comprehends with a slow, sinking sensation.

“This isn't a dream, is it?” he speaks aloud, voice hoarse. His throat feels raw, as though he's been screaming. When he was being healed by Anders, his memory dimly supplies.

“...No. It isn't.”

“Varric told me what happened. I... I'm sorry, Hawke.” That's Aveline's voice. Or maybe it's just someone who sounds like her, he doesn't know, he can't _see._

No. No, no, no, he has to be dreaming, he _has_ to be-

“There must be a way to fix it,” he says, the desperation creeping up on him like a rising tide. If this really is a dream, if they really are demons, this is when they'll make their offers. “Anders could try again, Varric could ask around-”

“There's nothing we can do,” Anders, hushed, “Some things just can't be fixed.”

No offers. No demons, “Then what happens now?” he asks hopelessly. For the first time in his life, he is completely at a loss, “What am I supposed to do?”

Silence is his answer.

“...Does Bodahn know yet?”

“Yes messere,” the man himself speaks up, “And Sandal's been quiet all morning, even before I explained it to him. I think he sensed something was wrong, truth be told.”

“Enchantment,” his son chimes in, nearing the bed with slow, clumsy footsteps. Even he lacks his usual energy and enthusiasm.

“Is there anything you can do about this?” Hawke almost pleads, a last resort, “Any of those clever runes you make, those stones... anything?”

The steps come to a halt. “Not enchantment,” the words alone can mean a variety of things, but the tone belies the meaning, “Sor-ry.”

“You'll – you'll be alright, messere,” says Bodahn nervously, “My boy and I will look after you.”

His hands curl into fists. “I don't want to be looked after. I want to look after myself.”

Aveline shifts, the metal of her armour clinking lightly, “You'll be able to. You just need to adjust.”

“How? How am I supposed to adjust to this?” he gestures to his ruined eyes, voice climbing in volume. How can they be so calm? They don't know what it's like to have one of your most important senses snatched away, lost forever. “I don't even know where to begin!”

“Perhaps...” that lilt belongs to Sebastian, who has been quiet until now, “You could ask for the Maker's guidance? It has helped me before, during bleaker times.”

“Oh has it?” He knows, distantly, that the priest means to be helpful, but it feels more like he's trying to convert him from his atheism. All his previous attempts have failed, and what better an opportunity than this? “And does your god have a miracle cure for me, hm, if I only attend Chantry service more often?”

A falter, “I merely meant, as a way to calm your soul-”

“It's my eyes that are the problem, in case you haven't noticed,” he snaps, bristling with anger. “If he's so benevolent and mighty, why did he let this happen in the first place? Or perhaps you think it's punishment for not being a believer.”

He sounds stricken now, “I never said that-”

“You didn't need to. _Get out,_ ” his voice is a dangerous growl. Never mind that he can't actually back up any implied threat, helpless as he is. “That goes for all of you. I want to be alone.”

He's been angry before, of course, but he suppresses it around others – not controlling one's temper is a sign of weakness and poor leadership. But there's just too much frustration and sheer fury to hold back, as though it brims from his every pore. It's enough to unnerve his company, who've never seen him like this, into leaving the room. Some more hurriedly than others, _fearfully._ And then he is left, shaken and sick, on his own.

-

He remains as such for the rest of the day, or night, whatever time it is. Even walking around his bedroom is a dizzying endeavour, so he doesn't dare venture around the house, and _definitely_ not outside it. He lingers, unsure what to do; he can't read, he can't write, he can't sit at his window and watch the world go by. He passes the time trying futilely to come up with something, _anything_ that could give him a lead on a cure. Several hours and no conclusions later, another person enters his room.

“Hawke?” Merrill, with the same hushed tone that everyone keeps using around him. Maybe it's meant to be soothing, but it just makes them harder to hear. “Bodahn says you haven't been out of your room all day...”

“Where have you been?” Sìleas asks her.

“Doing some research. I thought I could find a way to cure you.”

He slumps. Merrill is a talented mage, and smarter than people give her credit for, but she's no healer. “Anders says nothing can be done.”

“Well, um, he's a very good doctor. But he's only considered normal magic.”

“Normal-?” and he realises, “Oh no. No way.”

“Just hear me out!” she says hastily, “Blood magic can do things that normal magic can't, there's no limitations. Anders couldn't fix your eyes, but I might be able to.”

The main source of arguments in their relationship is blood magic, namely that Sìleas Does Not Approve. He is of the opinion that blood magic is forbidden for a reason, and should therefore not be practised. But by this point he is so desperate in the lack of any options that he is willing to put his strict moral code to one side and hear her out: “What do you have in mind?”

“I don't have anything concrete yet,” he can hear the nervousness in her tone, “But I thought... maybe I could ask the spirit that helped me cleanse the mirror.”

He stops. Had he eyes, he would stare incredulously. As it is, he doesn't know how well the expression is conveyed. “The demon, you mean.”

“That's just a misnomer. He's helped me before, he could show me what to do.”

“But at what cost?”

“I only use my blood, no-one else's. It's not even that much, really.”

He makes a sound too harsh and sharp to be called a sigh. Smarter than people give her credit for, yes, but so stupidly naïve at times. “I was talking about bargaining with the demon.”

“He didn't ask anything of me last time.”

“Then he'll want something _this_ time, won't he? Demons are evil, Merrill, they tempt people to get a foothold into our world-”

“There's no danger so long as you're careful! I've done this before, I know how to deal with them.”

“You got lucky. I won't let you risk it a second time.” Desperate he may be, but a line must be drawn somewhere. He wants a cure, but not via a means that he'll pay for tenfold down the line. He won't get his eyes fixed just to witness Merrill turn into an abomination. “I'm not using blood magic, especially when demons are involved. No good will come of it.”

He can almost feel her exasperation. This is an old, old dispute, one they've had many times before. “This is your one chance to get your sight back. And you're turning it down over a silly prejudice.”

“It is not 'silly' and it's not prejudice when it's true. What about all the maleficar and abominations we've hunted down? What about Quentin?”

She falls quiet, a brief lull in the dispute: “He was a madman, Hawke. It isn't fair to judge the rest of us by his actions.”

“But he started off well-intentioned, didn't he?” Sìleas remarks, tone bitter. They've never really talked about Leandra's death. That doesn't mean he's overlooked her use of blood magic, if anything it's more of a sore spot than ever. “He just wanted to see his wife again, to get back something lost, and blood magic was the only option. But it corrupts you Merrill. You don't have to be outright possessed for demons to get inside your head.”

“I'm _not_ Quentin,” is her firm reply. Then, when he is silent, “Will you just think about it?”

“No,” he answers bluntly, “And you shouldn't either.”

She sighs in frustration, but says nothing more.

-

So it continues for a few days.

Merrill acts as his caretaker by proxy on account of living with him. The others visit occasionally but never for long, they quickly run out of things to say. Varric brings over cards for Wicked Grace, but obviously he can't see them, so Merrill has to tell him. She whispers too loud, and he knows Varric can hear, but the dwarf somehow manages to lose anyway, wryly proclaiming Hawke the victor. It is only by coercing Merrill later that he finds out Varric actually had a winning hand.

He hates this. He hates being treated with kid gloves, handled as though the slightest upset will cause him to break. Though he feels that way sometimes, so tense and angry that it causes everyone to hastily excuse themselves, which of course only makes him feel worse. But it's always the slightest things: fumbling with his shirt buttons until Merrill steps in to help, not being able to go up and down the stairs without clinging onto her arm. All the little actions he's never even had to think about before, that he assumed he would be able to do with his eyes closed. But when it comes to just that, it's as though his limbs are no longer his own.

Merrill does everything for him. She picks out his daily outfit, she makes him food, she fetches whatever he needs from the market. And he... he knows that she's trying to be helpful. He knows that without her he would look a fool in mismatched clothes, and cut his fingers making sandwiches. But every menial task she does reminds him of what he has lost, what will remain lost for the rest of his life. He is the type of person who hates being waited on hand and foot, and not being able to do anything for himself leaves him grinding his teeth in aggravation. One quiet evening, when Merrill is re-dressing him after a bath, he remarks that he wishes his independence back.

She is silent for a moment. And then, she tells him: “You could have it, if you would only let me try.”

He scowls, “We have had this discussion. I will not stoop to using blood magic.”

“Is that what you see it as? What you see _me_ as?” She sounds hurt. That doesn't make him change his mind however. “It's just using blood instead of lyrium. It doesn't need to involve controlling minds or sacrificing innocents.”

“And yet most blood mages end up taking that path. It twists you, warps your perceptions. I won't have it,” he shakes his head, “And I definitely won't have you consulting that demon.”

“But he can fix you!”

“How do you know? Did you ask him?” Silence. “You _did._ I can't believe you! Every time I tell you not to do something, you go and – and do it anyway!”

“You're not my keeper, and I won't be ordered around like a child-”

“I'm trying to do what's best for you!”

“And so am I!” The sudden sense and air of movement tells him she has thrown her hands up in exasperation, “You say you want your old life back, and I want to give it to you, but you won't let me!”

“That's because it involves _a demon!_ ”

“What other choice do we have? I just asked him, Hawke, I haven't agreed to anything yet.”

“Nor will you,” he snaps, “I don't suppose he outright told you what to do, did he? He'll just gradually leak information under the guise of 'one step at a time'. And each step will have its cost, just slightly greater than the last, so that you don't even realise how much you're losing.”

“I'm not stupid, I know there'll be a price. But don't you think it would be worth paying, to get your eyes back?”

“It sounds to me like the magic's already gone to your head,” is his dark reply, “Was it worth my mother dying, for Quentin to get his wife back?”

“I'm not Quentin!”

“But you will be if you don't stop this right now. Do you think I want my sight back just to see you turn?”

“I won't become an abomination. And no, I don't know what you want, because you're _impossible,_ ” she answers, harsher than he's ever heard her sound. Their arguments usually finish with someone stalking off before it gets to this volume. “You want a cure, but you won't let me find it. You want my help with your clothes, but you tense like a reigned halla when I dress you. You want conversation, but then you just snap at me. What do you want?!”

“I want you to stop using that infernal magic, so I don't have to date a maleficar!”

“ _Have_ to? I didn't realise I was such a chore.”

“That's not-” he pauses, exhales violently, “Do you realise what a hypocrite I feel? I run around killing blood mages, and yet I come home to one every night. I don't like contradictions, I don't like having to lie about what you are-”

“Always about you!” she cries out. He can hear her pacing around restlessly. “If you don't like who I am, why did you choose me in the first place?!”

“Sometimes I wonder at that myself!”

Her pacing stops.

“Fine.” Trembling. Hurt. _Angry._ “If that's the case then I'll just – I'll just go!”

“What? Merrill-” he hears her run from the room and immediately gives chase. These last few days he's gone nowhere unaccompanied; moving on his own, every step feels like a tumble into the unknown. Without sight to guide him, he must wildly guess where the doorway is, smacking his shoulder on the frame in the process. In the hallway his hip knocks against something, and there is the shattering cacophony of what he _knows_ is his mother's prized heirloom vase.

“Merrill!” he shouts again, a hint of desperation in his tone, but she does not answer. He gets as far as the top of the stairs then skids to a halt, the world lurching dangerously before him. He grips the bannister white-knuckled to keep from falling forwards, clammy with cold sweat as the adrenaline turns to fear. Merrill finishes the last step as effortlessly as any sighted person, and dashes to the exit without a glance back. He hears the front door slam shut and then... nothing. It's not merely quiet, but the kind of grim, final silence found inside a coffin.

“...Merrill?” he calls out, hating how small and timid his voice sounds.

There's no-one else here; earlier he sent Bodahn and Sandal away for a few days, to spare them his temperament and to spare himself any gratingly nosy concern or excitable chaos as he settles in. But he hasn't told Merrill or the others that yet. If they assume he is being looked after, it could be days before anyone comes by to see him. There's no way he can get downstairs – not as shaky as he is, he'll fall for sure – and if he can't do that he can't get help, or food and water.

 _Helpless._ He understands the true meaning of the word now. Too afraid to walk and too proud to crawl down the stairway, he is stranded in his own home. It is evening and no-one will visit him now, he faces an evening spent alone. But surely in the morning someone will come... they'll hear of Merrill's flight and decide to check up on him, won't they?

Won't they?

-

He sits alone in his ghost of a mansion, drinking.

Normally he would be sharing Hawke's company, a card game or a reading lesson over a bottle of wine. But he has not seen the man since the Incident; he has lingered outside the estate a few times but never entered, unsure of what he would do or say. Even less so with that blood mage now constantly around. He would just end up arguing with her, and Hawke needs no more chaos in his life at the moment. Instead he nurses his second bottle of _Aggregio Pavali,_ planning to drink enough for the two of them, though given Hawke's... unenviable situation, he's not sure if he has enough alcohol.

Fenris has his own sorrows to drown. Among the usual haze of Danarius flashbacks and fleeting memories, there is a single sound repeating in his mind like an endless echo: the scream from Hawke as the acid contacted his eyes. It will not leave him be. Not simply for how chilling it was, but how _familiar._ He cannot say for sure, he does not remember the particulars, but he thinks it is the same noise he made during the lyrium ritual, stemming from the same agony.

He does not wish to remember. He raises the bottle to his lips.

...And sets it down again. No doubt Hawke does not wish to remember either. He is possibly the least qualified person in Kirkwall to offer comfort and advice, but he can offer alcohol. Which doesn't _fix_ anything, but enough of it can make you forget you had problems in the first place. He could drop by the estate, check up on Hawke...

No. The man already has Bodahn and Sandal and the witch around, he hardly needs the company of a socially awkward ex-slave.

And yet...

There is a feeling, a sensation best described as restlessness, that he should go to Hawke. Not so much that he wants to go, but he _should_ go. Perhaps he has simply grown used to spending his evenings with the man, perhaps he just misses his quiet company. Whatever it is, it causes him to fidget incessantly in his seat. Now that he has the idea of visiting Hawke in his head he can't get it out, can't sit still, can't stay here any longer.

He leaves his mansion with two bottles – one won't be enough, he thinks – and his greatsword slung over his back. Just a precaution, though the night time streets are peacefully empty. Hawke's work, he's spent much of the past year clearing out the criminal gangs and troublemakers. Kirkwall is relatively problem-free for the time being, and just as well.

He approaches the house, knocks and waits for Bodahn to let him in. Nothing. Frowning, he tries again, louder this time. Nothing. He tries the door and finds it unlocked. Strange, it's too late for casual visits, leaving it like this means anyone unsavoury could just walk in. And why does no-one answer?

Warily he enters the house, finding it silent. He places the two bottles aside and unsheathes his sword as quietly as possible so as not to alert any potential enemies. He checks the downstairs rooms first: there are no signs of struggle or trouble, yet there is emptiness where there should be people. He does not put his sword away just yet.

His grip on it tightens considerably when he reaches the top of the stairs. A shattered vase, some of the shards painted with an unmistakable still-wet red. Bloodied barefoot prints, staggering and erratic, lead to Hawke's room. When he follows them, easily evading the sharp pieces, he finds they follow through to the bed – on which Hawke himself is curled up, looking distinctly miserable.

“Hawke?” he asks cautiously.

The man lifts his head a fraction off the sheets. His voice is a hoarse whisper. “...Fenris?”

“What happened? There's blood...”

“Stepped on the broken vase,” he mumbles, flopping back down again, “I pulled the biggest pieces out but I can't get all of them.”

Sure enough, Fenris can see small fragments still embedded in the red-soled feet, “And then you _walked_ back to your bed?”

“I won't crawl,” is the simple, if weary, reply.

Sìleas to a T. Fenris shrugs the claymore off his back, setting it to one side now he knows there is no danger. “Where is Bodahn?”

“On a break. I wanted some peace and quiet.”

“What about the w- Merrill?”

“...She ran out. Argument. I knocked over the vase trying to follow her.”

“And she just left you here?”

“She didn't know about Bodahn,” Hawke sighs, sounding so very tired, “I lost my temper. Said some harsh things”

“I'm sure she deserved no less,” he mutters darkly. It is no great secret that Fenris disapproves of the relationship; it's the only time he's ever truly questioned the man's judgement. Still, he stays quiet about it around Hawke out of respect. “Do you have any bandages around?”

“They're only shallow cuts-”

“Hawke.”

“...Downstairs in the hall. On the desk,” he yields. No energy to be stubborn, it seems.

Again avoiding the mess, Fenris heads downstairs, locks the front door before grabbing bandages and salve as well as his two wine bottles. When he gets back to the room Hawke is sat up, forlornly picking out bits of ceramic from his feet.

“That was my mother's vase,” he says dully, not looking up, “Her favourite. It's been in this house ever since she was a child.”

“It can be fixed,” Fenris assures him, though even he knows it would take a great deal of time and patience.

“Unlike some things,” Hawke mumbles, seemingly to himself. Fenris doesn't know what to say to that.

“...I, uh, brought wine,” he sets the bottles down with a loud _clink_ that perks Hawke up immediately. He tentatively reaches out to where he thinks the bottle is, cheered when he correctly curls his hand around smooth glass. After a bit of fumbling with the cork he takes a deep, Fenris-worthy swig.

While he's distracted Fenris seats himself at the end of the bed and starts plucking out shards with his sharp-tipped gauntlets. They may look unwieldy, but he's worn them so long they're now a mere extensions of his fingers. While not life-threatening, the cuts are more than 'shallow'... it must sting, but Hawke makes no sound, no sign of distress beyond the occasional grimace. They do not talk, nothing unusual – neither of them are men of many words – at least, not until Fenris has finished wrapping the last of the salve-soaked bandages around Sìleas' feet.

“...Thank you,” Hawke says quietly. “I didn't think anyone would find me.”

“Someone would have visited tomorrow.” Maybe. No-one has the first idea how to handle Hawke so they've been giving him a wide berth. He's suddenly very glad for the restlessness that compelled him to come here.

Hawke is silent. Fenris gets the impression that he's well aware of the 'wide berth' thing. “...Do you think Merrill will come back?”

Truthfully, he hopes she doesn't. Merrill is – well, she's a blood mage. That says all it needs to, really. “Do you _want_ her to come back?” he asks carefully.

“Of course I do.”

Fenris hesitates. It is not his place to question... but he is no longer a slave, he does not have to stay silent. Sìleas taught him as much. “Why? It seems all you do is argue.”

Sìleas takes a long drink of wine before answering, sounding sad: “It's... complicated.”

 _It doesn't have to be._ But he does not give voice to that treacherous hope. When his thoughts take this path, the best thing to do is excuse himself. Besides, he has unfinished business to attend to.

“I have to go,” he announces, standing up. At Hawke's startled response, he adds: “Not for long. Finish that wine, I'll be back to share the second bottle.”

“Where are you going?”

He gives a tight little smile that is more for his benefit than Hawke's. “Just to talk to some people.”

He leaves the Amell mansion, heading down to Lowtown with grim determination. He knows exactly where to go, where _she_ will be. While Hawke seeks solace during times of grief, she latches onto other people and counts on them to solve her problems.

The Hanged Man is cluttered and busy as he enters, people still drinking in celebration of the new Champion, blissfully unaware of what has become of him. But Varric, who can normally be found as the ringleader of such chaos, is suspiciously absent. That means he's upstairs in his quarters, and _that_ means he's having a heart-to-heart with someone. When Fenris is through, she'll be lucky if she has a heart left.

The door is closed. He barges it open without knocking and storms into the room with a suitably thunderous expression. She's there, of course she is, sat at Varric's table with her head in her hands, though she snaps upright at his entrance. The others are there too: Aveline's hand is half way to her sword before she realises he's not an enemy, though she still regards him warily. Anders looks surprised, Sebastian worried and Varric, with his keen sense for impending shit-storms, has neatly disbanded his chair. Fenris doesn't give him the chance to speak.

“ _You,_ ” he hisses dangerously, glaring at the centre of all this. She stares back, eyes wide and frightened, just a little guilty.

“Broody-” Varric hastily puts himself between Merrill and Fenris as the latter marches forward.

“You left him in that house,” he continues in a low, angry snarl, addressing her and only her, “When there was _no-one_ to help him. Did you not notice Bodahn's absence?”

“W-what?” her voice is a shocked stammer, “I didn't know-”

“That's no excuse! And you left the door unlocked, anyone could have come in and ransacked the place, hurt him. You are lucky it was me and not some bandit.”

“But I didn't _know!_ ” she protests desperately, “I thought Bodahn was with him!”

“Well he wasn't! And, while he was running after you trying to apologise for _your_ hissy fit, he knocked over Leandra's vase. But you didn't turn back to help him, did you?”

Sebastian speaks up, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh yes. I suppose you left that part out of your little pity party,” Fenris sneers at a flinching Merrill, then turns to address Sebastian, “They argued, she ran out, he knocked over his mother's vase trying to follow her. And then cut his feet on all the shards getting back to his room.”

There's a chorus of sharp inhales. Anders steps forward, ever the healer, “Is he alright?”

“I bandaged him up,” Fenris says dismissively. While he and Anders usually can't pass a single sentence without arguing, all his anger is focused on the witch at the moment. “No thanks to her.”

“Everyone calm down,” Aveline the peacemaker, “What was the argument about?”

“He said he wanted his independence back because he can't do anything for himself anymore,” Merrill tells her miserably, “But he won't let me fix him!”

Everyone exchanges glances, and Sebastian gives the collective thought voice: “Fix him how?”

“Well with... with magic.”

“Blood magic,” Fenris says slowly. Hawke never actually mentioned what they'd argued over, but then what else could it be about? “Of course. You would find a way to make things worse.”

“I'm trying to help him!”

“Help him? You're the one responsible for this!”

“What? How?”

“He pushed _you_ out of the way of that spider. If you had watched your own back he would never have been attacked,” he reminds her, every muscle clenched in anger. Has she forgotten the fight already? _Every_ fight, in fact, when she resorts to her filthy blood magic, leaving her frail and vulnerable. Sìleas watches out for her at his own expense, only this time the price is permanent. “Furthermore, if you had bothered to learn healing, you might have saved his eyes and all of this misery.”

Merrill's recklessness is one of the very few subjects on which he and Anders agree. But any hint of the topic of mages and he can't resist stepping in and starting an argument: “Oh, so now you're angry because she _didn't_ use magic?”

“You were no help either, mage,” he shoots back, “Had you used the 'gift' you rave incessantly about to properly heal Hawke's side, he would've had no problem dodging the attack.”

The abomination narrows his eyes, behind which is the briefest flicker of blue – Fenris feels it more than sees it. “Quick to blame others today, aren't you? If you hadn't suggested he single-handedly duel the Arishok, Hawke wouldn't have been skewered to begin with.”

“The fight would've happened anyway!”

“But it _could've_ happened with everyone instead of one on one. And you could've fought alongside him and looked after him just like you were supposed to do when the spider-”

“Am I supposed to watch for the witch's fool mistakes as well?” he gestures vehemently at Merrill, which reminds him who he's supposed to be angry at, “And my quarrel is with her, not you. She is the one to blame here.”

“Wait now-” Varric starts warningly.

“You're the one he always has to cover for,” Fenris tells her, ignoring Varric's ongoing protests, “Blustering around, running straight into enemies. The only reason you don't fall more often is because Hawke lures the danger away from you.”

Her eyes are wide, “He – he does?”

“And she doesn't even notice!” he exclaims in frustrated fury, “Why Hawke brings you along so often is beyond me!”

“Something to do with magic being useful, I imagine,” Anders mutters.

“ _Blood_ magic. Which is the root of all our problems, as always. And now she wants to fix him with it?”

“Why can't blood magic fix him?” she argues, “There's no boundaries, no limitations-”

“As I am all too aware,” he snaps, “Where do you limit the cost for your cure? Your soul, or the sacrifice of another?”

“Why does everyone assume I'll turn into a monster?!” she stands up, raising her voice at last, “Blood magic isn't dangerous if you're careful, which is all I've ever been. I know what I'm doing!”

“No, you don't. You have no idea what you meddle with, because you're a child who thinks herself a sage-”

“I don't want to talk about this,” her voice is firm, but her frail form shakes with either anger or anxiety, maybe both. “You can't change my mind and I can't change yours, so let's just – _not,_ okay? We're done.”

His lips curl back into a snarl, “We are not _done-_ ”

But she slips past him with agility bolstered by magic, hurrying out of the door before he can grab her. He turns with a wordless growl, his more predatory instincts kicking in as he gives chase. Behind him, he dimly hears Varric swear and the rushed clatter of others in pursuit.

Heads turn in the Hanged Man at the two odd elves, though confusion is lost among the drunken merriment. The pungent air gives way to the only marginally improved odour of Lowtown, but the coolness does not quell the heated fury beneath his skin. She is too quick for Sìleas but not him; he grabs her by the wrist, slender and so very breakable, and hauls her back to face him.

“You left him stranding and bleeding in her own home,” he hisses, “We are _not_ done.”

“L-let go,” he can smell her fear, “You're hurting me.”

“I don't care,” he clenches her tighter, enough to deaden her nerves and leave ugly black bruises. The only care he takes is not to cut her on his gauntlets, he won't give her the chance to use her magic, “This, all of this, is your fault.”

“It – it isn't-”

“Isn't it? You are the one who he tried to protect, who he has _always_ protected, and you don't even acknowledge it.” Her bones creak under his grip and she gasps, squirming and writhing to get away, but to no avail. “He is miserable because of you. He is bleeding because of you. He is _blind_ because of _you_ -!”

There is a click, a snap, and something whizzes past his shoulder close enough to graze his hair. He turns furiously, and finds a loaded Bianca aimed squarely at him.

“Easy, Broody.” Varric's tone is nonchalant. Perhaps that is what makes it so dangerous. “Getting angry isn't going to solve anything, so how about you let her go, hm?”

“He pushed her out of the way of that attack,” Fenris declares as the others spill out into the street, “You saw it yourself.”

“If we're going to play the blame game you should start with the spider,” says the dwarf, still pleasant, still aiming a crossbow straight at his chest, “Let her go.”

He swallows back nausea. Survival instincts reel through his mind – _phase through the bolt let it hit her grab crossbow use to dislocate jaw phase hand crush heart_ – he lets her go.

Varric doesn't lower Bianca yet. “Good. Why don't you go back to Hawke's house, Daisy.”

“She will not. I promised him I would return there.”

“To your alienage house then,” as though Fenris had never spoken, “Broody, I think I'll accompany you to Hightown if you don't mind.”

Obviously he has no say in the matter, “Fine.”

Merrill flees back to her home, and after a meaningful glance from Varric all the others follow her. Fenris storms his way towards Hightown hoping to lose his company, but the dwarf easily keeps pace with deceptive speed.

“So,” he speaks, not even breathless, “About Daisy.”

“Don't, Varric.”

It goes ignored, “Now I'll admit she isn't the sharpest tool in the box. But that doesn't mean she deserves to have her wrists broken.”

“She deserves much worse,” Fenris growls, “She wants to use blood magic on him. Blood magic!”

“I'm a dwarf. What magic is or does means shit to me,” he is reminded. “She's only trying to help. It's not like there are any other options.”

“Given their argument, Hawke would rather stay blind than use it. _That_ should tell you how much of an option it is.”

A shrug, “So it's a bad choice. Doesn't make her a bad person.”

“What about running out and leaving the house unlocked? Hawke has enemies, anyone could have come in and attacked him, he's in no position to defend himself.”

“Firstly, she thought Bodahn was there and secondly, if someone really wanted to get in a locked door wouldn't stop them,” he points out. “And his enemies don't know about the blindness yet... as far as they know he's still the guy who single-handedly killed the Arishok. No-one wants to test their luck.”

“Should I also forgive her for running away, leaving him to cut his feet on the broken vase?”

“She hardly knew that would happen. She was stressed, upset, probably scared – you know how intimidating Hawke can be. It takes two people to argue.”

“If she hadn't suggested something as stupid as blood magic there would've been no argument. Her idiocy is the reason Hawke was blinded in the first place.”

The dwarf shakes his head. “She's no more to blame than the rest of us,” he says, “If I had provided cover, if Anders had healed the Arishok wound, if you had never suggested the duel, if Isabela had never started the whole Qunari mess... if this, if that. You could point the finger at practically anyone, not just her.”

“But she's the one he always risks himself for.”

“Of course he does. He loves her.” Varric gives him a critical look. “He loves _her,_ Fenris.”

He swallows, looking at the ground, “...I know.”

There's a silence. Varric sighs.

“I know you're angry. We all are. But you can't lash out at her just because she's the easiest one to hate.”

They both come to a halt, already at Hawke's estate due to their fast pace. The surrounding area is deserted, but Varric lowers his voice anyway: “Keep an eye on him tonight. I'll send Daisy over tomorrow when everyone's calmed down. Don't go starting any arguments in front of Hawke.”

Fenris still says nothing. No protests, but no promises either. He simply gives a curt nod as way of saying goodbye and without further ado heads inside. He stays quiet even as he closes and locks the door, discards his sword and heads upstairs past the shattered vase. Only the forcefulness of his motions belies his dark mood.

It softens somewhat at seeing Sìleas on the bed, breathing slow and heavy with slumber. The wine bottle is depleted, though the second one remains unopened. Fenris takes it for himself and in doing so causes Hawke to stir: “...'Enris?”

“Right here,” he answers, as calm as he can manage, “Still want to share that second bottle?”

“M'fine. You have it,” a yawn, “Tired.”

“Go to sleep then.”

“You don't mind?”

“No.”

He sits in the chair by the desk, bottle of wine in hand, sipping occasionally as he watches Hawke sink back into sleep. It's oddly calming, and he feels his earlier anger ebb and fade along with any thoughts of the blood mage. Sìleas is loathe to show any vulnerability, so to allow Fenris to watch him sleep is a display of trust he rarely encounters. He could almost pretend the trust exceeded friendship, that he and Hawke were-

No.

It would never... no.

He takes a long drink to wash the thoughts away, and spends the rest of the night carefully Not Thinking About It as he watches over his friend. A friend, and nothing more.

-

When Varric gets back to Merrill's alienage house he finds her sat quietly, the last of her bruises fading before they can truly take hold thanks to Anders' magic. He nods to Aveline and Sebastian, both in greeting and to confirm that he and Fenris have had Words, but doesn't elaborate on what was discussed.

Instead, his attention is straight on the centre of all this: “You alright, Daisy?”

“I'm... I'm fine,” when Anders is done with her she holds up her unmarked wrists for Varric to see, “All fixed.”

He gives her his kindest smile, “I didn't mean physically.”

“O-oh,” she shrugs, but the nonchalance seems forced. “I'll be alright. They're just words. Very loud ones, but words nonetheless.”

“He can be snappy sometimes but I've never seen him like that before,” Aveline comments, shaking her head, “And over a few cuts?”

Anders frowns, “Maybe they were more serious than he let on.”

Varric waves a hand dismissively, “Not if they could be fixed up by bandages. It's probably just anger built up over the last few days.”

Or the last few years. Fenris has never been keen on Merrill, but the animosity towards her increased significantly after she moved in with Hawke. Although he's never actively tried to meddle or break up the relationship, he still glares at her when he thinks no-one's looking. He wouldn't have been nearly as enraged had someone else stranded Hawke, Varric is sure.

“He has every right to be angry,” Sebastian intones softly, sadly. “Hawke should not have been left alone.”

“Now-” Varric starts as Merrill tenses.

“I mean by all of us,” the priest clarifies, “We have stayed away from Hawke because it was easier than facing him, when we should've been there to offer our support.”

“For once I actually agree with him,” Anders declares, “He's physically healed, but I should've checked up on him yesterday. I just thought that...” he hesitates, but goes on, “That I wouldn't be welcome. I don't think he's forgiven me for sealing his eyes shut.”

“You had no choice, though,” Aveline points out.

“It's harder to see it that way when you're the recipient. He's so adamant sometimes, it almost makes me believe-”

“Don't. You fixed everything you could, I know you did,” Varric interrupts him, “Hawke would be missing a lot more than his eyes if you hadn't poured so much magic into him. There was nothing more you could've done.”

“There was nothing more any of us could've done. How exactly would we have supported him?” asks Aveline, “You remember what he was like after Bethany, after – Leandra,” the room turns even more sombre at the mere mention of her name, “And after his brother died back in Lothering. Hawke doesn't do grief.”

“Or at least hides it well. Daisy, you talked to him after Leandra, did it help?”

“We didn't actually talk...” she mumbles, “I visited, he said he wanted to be alone and, well, that was that. He stayed in his room for a few days and when he came back he was more or less back to normal.”

“There you go,” Varric addresses Sebastian, “He prefers solitude to counselling.”

“A family death is by no means easy, but one can move forward. Dealing with blindness is another matter.”

“But he just snapped at you the last time you tried to help. What more can we do?”

“I can do something. I can fix him,” Merrill points out, visibly upset, “And he won't let me.”

Aveline shifts uncomfortably. “I can't claim to be an expert in the field,” she says, “But using blood magic to fix the unfixable sounds... dangerous.”

“But I'm always careful, I won't get possessed-”

“I meant for Hawke,” she is corrected, “What if it goes wrong? What if it makes things worse?”

“How could things possibly get any worse?”

“It could kill him for a start. Or deprive one of his other senses, cause him suffering... he may be blind but at least he's stable, there's no other pain.”

“Not forgetting about the demonic side of things,” Anders adds grimly, “It is possible for non-mages to become possessed when strong magic is involved. He could become a Hawke plus one-” a slight wince, as though he's just been snapped at, “-By a demon I mean, not a spirit.”

Merrill actually bristles, “I'd never let that happen to him. I’d sooner die!”

“You just might,” Anders mutters.

“Much as I want to see Hawke healed, I cannot condone this,” Sebastian choruses in agreement, “Even overcoming the initial dangers, Hawke would then owe his sight to a demon. It strikes me that what a demon could give, it could just as easily take away.”

“But, but if you handle them correctly-” faced with unrelenting frowns from everyone else, she turns to the neutral party in the room, “Varric, surely you agree with me?”

He holds his hands up hastily, “I don't know enough about magic and Fade stuff to form a proper opinion. Dwarf, remember?” At her crestfallen expression, he sighs and adopts a softer approach: “I know you mean well, Daisy. It's true that blood magic might be the only way to heal Hawke, but there's a lot of risk involved.” And while Varric relishes a little risk every so often, he only gambles with coin, not lives. Not souls.

“Everything involves risk,” Merrill sounds unhappy, but presses no further argument, The room falls quiet.

“...Look,” Varric says at last, playing the peacemaker as always, “Everyone's stressed, everyone's tired. How about we just call it a night?”

The others murmur their agreement. They file out one by one back to their respective homes, leaving only Varric and Merrill. The latter still sits quietly at her table, and looks very much like she'll burst into tears at any moment.

He can't bring himself to leave her like that, “Daisy?”

Her voice is so small, barely above a whisper, “I just... I just wanted to help.”

He pulls up a chair next to her, but says nothing. She doesn't need someone who will talk, but simply listen. After all, she's been ignored and brushed off so far.

“Hawke was always the one who looked after me, even when we argued. He never worried or panicked over anything, he just... took care of it. Now I have to do the same for him and I – I keep messing it up, as always.”

“But you do look after him, you keep him company, you help him move around-”

“And it just makes him angry. We didn't have the calmest relationship to begin with, but now-” she stops, swallows, but forces herself to continue, “I don't know how to handle him.”

“None of us do, Daisy,” Varric sighs. Merrill is admittedly not the pillar of support you'd want in times of need, but she's _trying._ The fault lies not just in her not knowing how to give comfort, it's that Sìleas doesn't know how to receive it.

“I wish Isabela were here. She'd know what to do.”

A pained smile, “I don't think she's coming back.”

He misses Rivaini's company sometimes, but if she ever turned up he's not sure if he would kiss or throttle her. He can't blame her for fleeing Kirkwall with the tome; had she come back, he's certain Hawke would have handed her straight over to the Qunari. Technically she was responsible for the whole mess, and Sìleas believes in justice even more than Justice does. Still, here carefree humour and surprisingly sagely advice would've been well appreciated right now. But it hardly matters.

“I know, but... I still wish she was here to cheer me up.”

He can't help but agree.

-

It's difficult, sometimes, to differentiate when he's asleep or not. It's not that he doesn't dream, but often he dreams of nothing – lying in stasis, waiting to wake. But now there's no morning light to greet him, no sensation of opening his eyes. When he shifts he can't be sure if he really _is_ shifting, or just dreaming that he is.

“Hawke?” Fenris. Or is he imagining that too? He doesn't know.

“Is it... morning?” he can feel his own voice scratch at his sore throat. He must be awake, then.

“Afternoon.” He inwardly winces at that, he hates sleeping in. “You need to get dressed. Merrill will visit soon.”

He sits up at that, “She's coming back? I thought I might've driven her off.”

A snort, “You are not to blame,” and then a silence, like someone shifting uncomfortably. “I will need to leave when she arrives, at Varric's insistence. There was an... altercation last night.”

“An-?” and he recalls the words from yesterday: _I have to go... Just to talk to some people._ “You argued with her, I take it.”

“I grabbed her as she tried to run off. Might have left a few bruises.”

His shoulders tense, “Fenris-”

“I know,” the elf interrupts, “I let my anger get the better of me. I apologise.”

“For hurting Merrill, or disappointing me?” The shifting silence again, and no answer. Perhaps it is an answer in itself.

Sìleas sighs, “I suppose I can't blame you. I lose my temper sometimes as well. But you shouldn't raise your hand to anyone, unless they mean to harm you first.”

“I understand.”

This is a rare slip-up for Fenris. He's usually in control of himself, even more so than Sìleas, so he forgives this transgression for now. Besides, what with the residual sting in his bandaged feet, he's feeling less charitable towards Merrill than he normally might.

“So what clothes have you picked, then?”

“...Excuse me?”

“Clothes. For me to wear.” Silence. He can't tell, but he has the impression that Fenris is looking at him strangely. “I could wait until Merrill gets here, but I'd rather not greet her in my dressing gown.”

“So that means... Merrill decides your outfit for you, every morning?”

Now _he's_ the one shifting uncomfortably. “I'd do it myself if I could, but I'll end up in mismatched clothes. She just makes sure I look presentable.”

“She doesn't let you choose at all?”

He's aware that it's a pitiful notion, a reminder of all he's lost. His hands clench in frustration, but he tries not to voice it. “I can't do it myself.”

“I beg to differ.” Footsteps, the sound of the wardrobe doors creaking open. The soft thump and draught of clothes being thrown on the bed. “These shirts are all black. Pick one.”

He grits his teeth, this is getting ridiculous, “I can't _see,_ Fenris.”

“Don't use your eyes, then. They are not identical, you can feel the differences.”

He reaches out tentatively, hands trailing along the thick blankets until they contact the edge of a shirt. Silk, smooth and supple against his fingers, with delicate little buttons all the way up to the neck. He remembers it as the shirt Mother made him buy for formal occasions, a compromise between his tendency for plain, practical wear and the hideously bright fashions all the nobles were wearing at the time. Still too fussy for his tastes, too formal for a simple meeting, so he moves on.

The others are simple cotton, similar but for the details: buttons or lacing along the front, different collars, shorter sleeves. He's been blind for barely a week, and already what would've once been a split second decision now takes at least ten minutes. It's embarrassing, and surely it must be boring for Fenris, but the elf makes no comment, merely rustling around in his wardrobe.

Most of his shirts are practically the same anyway, so in the end he chooses randomly: “This one.”

“Alright,” he hears Fenris say, “What trousers? There's different styles and materials...”

“Something plain and loose-fitting, I think.” It's not like he's dressing to impress anyone.

“Shoes?”

“No. I'll stay inside today.” And the day after, and the day after that... he keeps telling himself he'll go out but he can't even get down the stairs by himself, so he keeps quietly putting off any ambitious ventures. But he doesn't mention that, of course.

“That's everything, then. I'll leave you to change.”

“You're not-” he bites down on his lip before he can finish the sentence. Of course Fenris won't help him dress, why would he? Merrill does but she's his partner, it's perfectly acceptable for her to see him unclothed. No matter how good of a friend Fenris is, there are boundaries not to be crossed. “-Never mind.”

“Call me when you're done.” With that the door is closed, and Fenris is gone.

Awkwardly, he pulls his slept-in evening wear off and begins to dress himself. Too used to Merrill briskly fastening everything for him, his fingers fumble on the buttons, the process painfully clumsy. In so little time he's already grown complacent, incompetent. He's so slow that by the time he's dressed and combed it hardly feels worthy of being called an achievement. But he feels marginally less useless than the past few days, which counts for something. Brightened, he meets Fenris at the door rather than calling him over.

“Sorry for taking so long.”

“You are simply unused to it,” Fenris assures him, though his tone soon turns dour, “But you should discourage Merrill's mothering. You will not learn if she does everything for you.”

“I suppose.” He hesitates at the next question; he must sound infantile, but he needs an assistant with this. His weakness is his own, not Merrill's. “Can you... help me down the stairs, though? I don't want to fall.”

The voice softens again, “If that is what you wish. You can walk through, I've swept up the vase.”

Sure enough, no broken shards find his feet as he walks into the hallway. But his confident streak soon falters as he reaches the top of the stairs, again misjudging and barely halting in time. Panic usurping his usual respect for Fenris' personal space he snatches up the elf's arm, feeling a twitch of muscle – an instinctive reflex to pull away. But Fenris holds himself in place; he steadies Hawke, takes the first step and encourages his charge to do the same.

He doesn't understand why he has so much trouble with this. It's like descending a mountain, he feels he'll tumble head first at any given time. Even when he slides his foot along each stair, clinging to the contact of the floorboards, there's a moment between each step where he feels only air, and there might as well be a waiting abyss below. One white-knuckled hand grips the stairway, the other latches onto Fenris for dear life, and it's only when they reach the bottom that he realises how hard his fingers are digging in.

He lets go immediately, “Sorry.”

“It is fine,” though from the subtle rustling of material, he'd wager Fenris is gingerly rubbing his arm, “You are... alright?”

“Yes, it's just-” _pathetic,_ “-Difficult.”

“Can you find your way to the library? Merrill can meet you in there.”

He tentatively makes his way through the house, for once without someone on his arm. Fenris is still there, occasionally intervening to steer him from the path of any more precious heirlooms, but the touches are light and almost hesitant. He isn't one for physical contact; truthfully neither is Sìleas, and the past few days of fuss have had him grinding his teeth, but now without it he feels unsteady and unsure. When he finally locates a chair he sinks into it gratefully, and doesn't let on how weak-kneed he is with relief.

“Hawke...” Fenris tone takes on a strange quality, casual in a way that implies some underlying motive. It's enough to make Hawke wary.

“What is it?”

“I thought, in light of the argument with Merrill, that you could call Bodahn back to the estate. To make you a proper meal and avoid any more stranded incidents.”

His mind immediately rejects the idea. “Hardly fair on the man. I sent him away on a break, he deserves to see it through.”

“I imagine most of Bodahn's break has been spent worrying about what's happening here. He'd probably be glad to come back early.”

“If he worries that much then clearly he needs more time off.”

“I think it'd be for the best-”

“Well I don't,” he interrupts exasperatedly, wishing Fenris could just get the hint. “I won't have him brought back just because his employer broke a vase and panicked when he – when he couldn't get down the stairs.”

A pause, “You believe he would think less of you for it?”

“I don't know,” he rubs at his temples wearily, “I just... don't want him to see me like this. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“You let me see you.”

“You are a friend. And also not prone to gossip,” he reminded him. “I entrust you not to tell Bodahn of the vase mishap. If he frets over me any more I will end up snapping at him.”

A sigh, reluctant but defeated, “As you wish.”

They chat idly a while longer until the bell at the front door rings, and Fenris hastily excuses himself. Then it's the dainty, skittish steps that he's come to recognise as Merrill's gait, though he stays silent for fear of being mistaken. Yet another cost of his blindness; he's not a 'speak when spoken to' kind of person, he likes to have the first word, but he can't greet someone when he has no idea who he's talking to. It's a small thing, but a bitter loss all the same.

“Hawke,” she greets, reserved and nervous, but it _is_ her. He was correct, a victory of sorts.

“Merrill.”

“I'm sorry,” she blurts out at once, “For running off. I should've just – just gone into another room, or just turned back when I heard the vase smash but I thought Bodahn could take care of it even though he wasn't there-”

“Merrill. Rambling,” Sìleas interrupts her quietly.

“Right! Sorry. And for the vase thing, I mean, I know it wasn't a _thing_ it was an heirloom – tangent, sorry.” She falls silent for a moment, “Are your feet alright? Fenris said...”

He'd have preferred her not to know, but Fenris must have brought it up yesterday, “They're fine.”

“Are you sure because I can ask Anders-”

“They're _fine,_ ” he repeats firmly. “...It was my own fault anyway. There's no need to keep apologising.”

“Sorry,” she says automatically, then winces, “I mean – um – never mind.”

It falls quiet for a while. There's a noticeable difference between the comfortable no-need-for-words with Fenris, and the run-out-of-words he and Merrill often go through post argument. He does love Merrill, he wouldn't have chosen her otherwise, but sometimes he's not at all sure how to handle her.

“So did – did Fenris look after you for the rest of the night, then?” she asks at last.

“He bandaged my feet up then went out for a bit. I was asleep by the time he came back. Guess he spent the night here,” Hawke tells her. He can hear her feet scratching against the carpet as she shuffles restlessly on the spot.

“Oh. Um. When he went out, he came to find me. We had an argument.”

“I know. He told me about it this morning.”

Shuffle, “He was angry with me. More so than usual, I mean.”

“I gathered as much.”

Shuffle, shuffle. It's getting on his nerves, he wants to tell her to stay still for a moment. “He blames me for the... the spider attack. Because you pushed me out of the way.”

He stills, “I did?”

“You don't remember?”

“Not really.” Everything from venturing out to clear out the spiders to waking up in Anders' clinic is a blur. It's possible that he pushed her out of the way, it wouldn't be the first time he's had to cover her... but why would she bring it up? “What are you getting at?”

“I just – I wonder if-”

She hesitates. And shuffles. Fingers tapping irritably on the arm of his chair, he can't hold it back: “Merrill, can you please stop fidgeting? I can hear you, it's annoying.” She stops. He takes a deep breath, “Now what were you saying?”

“...Nothing. It doesn't matter.”

“Well clearly there's something on your mind.”

“It's not important. I'm just... being silly. Like usual, right?” he has no idea what she's talking about, but before he can ask her to elaborate she switches subject: “Now that I'm here, how about I make us lunch?”

He hasn't the chance to protest, or point out that he's still not had breakfast yet. She bustles away and he's left on his own, not quite sure what just happened. But things are back to semblance of normality, at least.


End file.
